


Knights of the Cat's Table

by lightlysaltedapples



Category: Warriors - Erin Hunter
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Angst, Anthro AU, F/F, F/M, Gen, How Do I Tag, Kind of follows canon - Freeform, M/M, No Transphobia, bi leafpool, breezepelt has daddy issues, but deviates a little bit, but more mothpool heavy, but you should probably read them in order, discussion of religion, each chapter CAN technically be a one-shot, except this is the middle ages so they dont really have a word for it, furries being knights, i believe in mothwing supremacy, leaf/crow mentioned, lesbian ivypool, lesbian mothwing, nonbinary holyleaf, some original art with each chapter :)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:34:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29562672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightlysaltedapples/pseuds/lightlysaltedapples
Summary: Our story begins shortly after Hollyleaf's disappearance and the reveal of her true pedigree. With Breezepelt's betrayal of his kingdom and family, and the growing threat of dragons encroaching on the Kingdom of Shadows, a darkness threatens to envelop the whole of the four kingdoms. We journey through a place of fantasy, of knights and nobles, of good, and of evil.tl;dr, What if Warriors was a medieval fantasy? And they were also furries being cool and doing cool stuff?
Relationships: Barley/Ravenpaw (Warriors), Blossomfall/Ivypool (Warriors), Breezepelt/Heathertail (Warriors), Crowfeather/Leafpool (Warriors), Firestar/Sandstorm (Warriors), Leafpool/Mothwing (Warriors)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 11





	1. Like Father, Like Son

**Author's Note:**

> Crowfeather's "only" son, Breezepelt, fled from the Kingdom of the Moor just a few short months ago, leaving his mother, Nightcloud, and fiance, Heathertail, behind, after it was revealed that Crowfeather had three other children by a priestess from the Red Forest.
> 
> As he guards the Great Hall of the Moor, Crowfeather receives an unexpected visitor.

And at once, the Grand Hall of the Moor was filled with a bitterly cold air, and the foul stench of death. Crowfeather felt his dark fur stick up on end, and was suddenly grateful to be wearing his coat. His eyes darted around the long room, from the empty throne to the yellow banners that adorned the walls, but he saw nothing. In fact, it appeared, before his very eyes, the room was getting darker and darker. Instinctually, the knight reached for the sword at his side, but he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. A chilling voice spoke, its words deliberate and grating to the ears.

“Why Father, that’s no way to greet your only heir, is it?”

Crowfeather ripped away, spinning to face the source of the voice as he drew his blade. Before him, Breezepelt stood. He was wearing the armor of a Knight of the Moor, but what struck him as odd was the red fur cape adorning his shoulders, and the fact that he appeared to be carrying no weapon. Only a simple iron staff, a deep red crystal sprouting from the top. Crowfeather glared, and drew his face back into a snarl, but it was his son who spoke first.

“Ah, that’s right!” He grinned, beginning to pace circles around the older soldier. His skinny tail lashed at his side. “What were your words again, Father? Oh yes, I remember. You have no true heir. That pathetic scrap of a wizard and that meathead, those are your real sons, aren’t they?”

“You keep your distance, Breezepelt.” Crowfeather hissed. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will do what I must. My loyalty lies to the people of this realm.”

To his surprise, the other began to snicker, to laugh. He shook his head, still recovering from his bout of laughter as he spoke again. “Oh yes, your loyalty. Hardly worth a penny these days.” He spat. “You’d trade it away for any woman who bats her eyes your way, wouldn’t you? Seems Mother and I are penniless, then, if you’d sooner give it to a priestess and the bastard children she gave you. Not your own wife, though. And not her son.”

Crowfeather straightened, his expression firm as he stared Breezepelt down. He set his jaw. “You are one to talk about loyalty. You abandoned your king, your country.” He said simply with a shake of his head. “You are right, Breezepelt, I have no heir, for mine has been claimed by darkness and evil.”

That had to have been the tipping point. With a cry of anger, Breezepelt lunged forward, swinging his staff in an attempt to knock his head. Crowfeather raised his sword, catching the weapon with the ease of a soldier who’d trained for years. Breezepelt’s lesser experience showed. The Grand Hall was filled with the sound of frustrated grunts and the clanging of metal as the two battled on. But as Breezepelt stepped back for a moment to catch a breath, Crowfeather lunged forward, and the sound of his blade cutting through flesh seemed to echo in his ears. Breezepelt fell to his knees, the gash in his side staining the stone floor crimson with each moment as he bled. His staff tumbled to the ground with a clatter, forgotten. Crowfeather stepped closer, weapon still drawn and its tip pointed right at Breezepelt’s forehead. The boy refused to look up at him, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing him surrender.  
For a few moments, they were still. Silent as the grave. Breezepelt’s whiskers twitched.

“Do it, then.” He huffed. “Kill me, if you’re a man enough.”

Crowfeather felt his chest heave, and an anger burned in his belly, but he stepped back and lowered his sword at his side. His gaze narrowed. “Leave this place, Breezepelt. And never return, or I might forget the mercy I’ve shown you tonight.”

Shakily, Breezepelt stood, clutching his hand to the fresh wound. He was weak on his legs now, Crowfeather noted, as he seemed to struggle even to stand. He raised his head, looking up at his father with the look of anger still drawn on his face. “You…” He growled. “You would abandon your only true son. Your kin. Your flesh and bone.”

“Begone.” Crowfeather spat. “I’ve spared you once. I shan’t do it again.”

Breezepelt’s amber eyes seemed to blaze in the night, and they had a strange quality that Crowfeather couldn’t quite place. “Very well.” He said after a moment or two. “But you had better watch your steps, Crowfeather, and count your every breath. Sleep with an eye open each night. For the moment you forget to be wary, I’ll be there, and I’m not wasting a moment on mercy.”

As the man limped away, out of the hall and into the darkness, Crowfeather couldn’t help but wonder if he’d heard that somewhere before.


	2. Leaves off the Same Tree

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Crowfeather and Breezepelt battle in the Great Hall of the Moor, Leafpool journeys with Mothwing into the heart of the Crystal Caves to receive a vision.

The Crystal Caves were dark. Lichen and moss grew from the smooth stones that made a path further and further inside. Water dripped from cracks in the high stone walls, and the sound echoed and repeated, bouncing off the walls in an endless song. Down this path, two women walked. The first, a short brown tabby, dressed in a simple white dress, with the Thunderclan royal crest on a pair of emblems that rested on her shoulders. She held a torch in her hand, which, presently, seemed to be the only thing lighting their way. The second was taller, with a boxier frame. Her fur was golden, with darker markings that swirled around her cheeks and arms. Her dress was the color of a pearl, and draped elegantly over her frame. Over one shoulder, she carried a small leather satchel. She walked with a staff, with six different colored crystals sprouting from the wood. It was an oracle’s staff, meant to be a symbol of peace. The four at the top were to symbolize the four kingdoms. One of the remaining smaller two was to recognize the fallen kingdom of the skies, while the other was to honor the Tribe of Rushing Water, rightfully, as friends to all, much like the oracles were meant to be. 

“It can’t be that far now, can it?” The taller of the two said as her companion scouted ahead, her torch raised a bit higher. When there was no response, she frowned slightly. “Leafpool?”

Leafpool had stopped a few feet ahead, her brown eyes wide in amazement. There on the cave wall, runes looked to have been carved into the wall. They glowed a brilliant blue, and, to her, they seemed to beckon, calling her closer and closer until-

“Leafpool?” Mothwing’s hand on her shoulder brought her back to reality. The carvings into the wall at once stopped glowing. She shook her head.

“Couldn’t you see it?” She asked, gesturing with a flick of her ear to the runes. Mothwing raised a brow in confusion, following her gaze. “These markings, a message from the stars, do you think?”

Mothwing frowned, narrowing her gaze to observe the lines in the stone. She reached out her hand to touch, running her claw along the grooves. She felt nothing. And she saw no glow. “If your gods are trying to speak to you, this is one hell of a way to do it. Glowing carvings in a language you don’t speak? C’mon, we should keep moving. I don’t want to get caught out here in the dark.” She said with a shake of her head. She took the other woman’s hand and guided her back to the path.

Even as they made their way deeper and deeper through the cavern, Leafpool kept Mothwing’s hand in hers, like an anchor. She knew she didn’t share her faith or her ancestry, but she felt a closeness with her, unlike others she’d felt before. They travelled for a while in a comfortable silence, until the path suddenly widened, into what looked like a room.

Tall marble pillars stood in the four corners of the place, with long stone benches along the closest two walls. In the very center of the room, a pool had been dug. Smooth cobblestones surrounded it, acting like tiny walls of a well. There was a strange light coming from above, and as Mothwing lifted her head, she suddenly got an answer as to why this place had been dubbed “The Crystal Caves”. Above them, a mess of shining crystals sprouted from the ceiling, an impressive work of natural architecture. They all glowed, casting away shadows, at least from the room. 

Without much need for the extra light anymore, Leafpool dampened the torch and put it down on the floor to rest. Mothwing stared up at the crystals for a moment or two before she trod over to one of the benches. Beside it, she rested her staff and her bag. She sat cross-legged, hands palms-up on her knees as she watched Leafpool.

“Mothwing, surely you feel something powerful about this place?” She breathed, kneeling down in front of the pool. “The heavens are closer to us here.”

Mothwing frowned, and she felt her tail involuntarily twitch. She sighed. “...Your gods speak to you here. Mine are silent.” She adjusted herself and lifted her chin slightly before she shut her eyes. She fell still as she slowed and steadied her breath, feeling each of her muscles relax as she fell into well-practiced meditation.

Leafpool bowed her head. She couldn’t understand, but she wasn’t there to. The other claimed that her ancestors never spoke to her, or made their presence known. She’d listened to her before, and all that she’d gotten was that she believed that the wisdom needed to predict the future was found through meditation. Whatever you called it, prayer, worship, falling into a trance, it was all the same. And while she believed there was a bit more to it than that, Leafpool could at least follow her argument. Slowly, she leaned down and forward, until her nose was just touching the cool waters. Then, with a slow breath in and a slow breath out, she closed her eyes, and let the world around her go black.


	3. Of Holly and Ivy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivypool learns her sister has been chosen as Sir Lionblaze's new squire, and meets an oddly familiar traveler who gives her some advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> potential TW (possible spoiler for this chapter)
> 
> \- internalized homophobia (minor. a character mentions that she can't see herself in a relationship with a woman because she isn't a man)

Ivypool had always been good at running.

As a child, her father had often joked that she must have some Moorland blood in her, after all, for how else could a girl born into Thunderclan move so quickly, like a deer leaping over hills? Her teachers had called her their little gray rabbit, the picture of what an archer ought to be. So lithe, so graceful.

But Ivypool did not want to be lithe and graceful. She wanted no Moorland blood in her veins. She wanted to be no one’s little gray rabbit. And she did not want to be an archer.

In her dreams, she donned warrior’s armor, raised her sharpened steel blade, and laid waste to all who stood in her path. And sometimes, out of the corner of her eye, she’d see a pale figure watching her, and she’d hear his voice whispering encouragement, advice-- he’d tell her to fix her footing, or to square her shoulders, but they were only dreams, and nothing more. She could push dreams aside for reality. She was Ivypool, skilled archer of the Red Forest, loyal companion to Blossomfall, the quiet historian. With her sister, the royal minstrel, playing sweet lullabies and singing noble ballads when they had a free moment, there was nothing the three of them couldn’t take on together.

But at that very moment, she was grateful for her long legs and wide stride. 

“I’m to be trained as Sir Lionblaze’s own squire,” Dovewing had said, the pride shining in her eyes. “Isn’t it wonderful news, Ivypool? We must celebrate!”

There’d be no celebration, not from her.

It was unfair, wasn’t it? Dovewing was small and soft, and had an innocence to her gaze. That was fine and good when singing stories and plucking the lute. It was entirely another when you were to go into battle. Why Dovewing? Why Dovewing, when Ivypool practiced her craft, day and night?

And so, under the guise of doing a bit of extra target practice, Ivypool ran. She ran through the forest and the brambles, past the stream she and Blossomfall danced together beside, and up the hill closest to the city, where she could see every inch of the land spanned out in all directions if she lifted her muzzle.

She’d often climbed that hill to think, or just to enjoy the quiet sounds of distant birds and the gentle feeling of the wind tangling in her fur. It was a quiet spot, one she kept to herself. She’d once or twice brought Blossomfall up there to share lunch away from the noise of the inner walls, but Blossomfall didn’t often leave those walls alone, and so Ivypool could usually be assured that she wouldn’t be disturbed there. 

And yet, when she made it to the top of the hill, a lone figure sat, facing away from her and towards the open forest below. They wore, as a sort of cape, the reddish fur of a fox-beast, and a small brown satchel rested at their side. Ivypool had already drawn her bow, arrowhead aimed squarely for this stranger’s head. Their fur was as black as the night, like the figure was a mere shadow casted down by the trees, but a voice convinced them otherwise.

“You can put your weapon down. I’m only passing through.” They said, not even turning their head. “I wasn’t under the impression King Firestar was one to send his men after a lone traveller.” Their accent wasn’t, as Ivypool expected it to be, gruff or foreign. It sounded like they’d come straight off the streets of the Red City. 

But, as instructed, Ivypool lowered her bow, and tucked the arrow away in it’s quiver. A few feet away from the stranger, she sat, gaze flickering between the oaks ahead and the figure beside her. In their hands, they held a bit of bread, wrapped away in a bit of purple cloth. As she got a closer look, she could see their bright green eyes, but what drew her attention was the scars that striped the other’s cheek. They must’ve noticed her staring, for they turned to look at her, expression tough to read.

“...is something the matter?” They spoke cautiously. 

Ivypool shook her head, and returned her gaze to the forest. “I’m sorry. I just… I haven’t seen many travelling through this part of the forest.”

The traveller sighed and broke the remaining bit of the loaf in two, keeping one for themselves and offering the other to her. “I travel more often by night. I don’t often come across many others outside town.”

After taking the bread and giving it a cautious sniff, Ivypool took a bite. It was a bit stale, but otherwise was fine. “Where are you from, if I could ask?”

“Doesn’t much matter. Yourself?”

“... Haven’t quite made my mind up yet.” Ivypool admitted, regretting almost sounding sheepish with the admission. She brought her knees up to her chest, resting her arm over them.

The traveller turned again to her, a look closer to sympathy in their green gaze. “Something’s troubling you. Would you tell me what it is, then?” At Ivypool’s silence, they continued on. “We might never cross paths again, my smallish friend. Go on, tell me. I was once trained as an oracle, you know. I might have an answer.”

Ivypool held her gaze as she slowly took a breath. She doubted this travelling-half-oracle had any sort of answer for her, but she figured it couldn’t do much harm. “There’s a girl in my village, a girl I’d like to impress. But my sister was chosen as a proper knight’s squire. All I can do, as far as my family believes, is shoot a quail with a bow.” She spat her last words like they were curses of the most foul variety. 

The traveller hummed as they nodded along to her tale, and went quiet for a few moments. “...this girl.” They began. “Do you love her?”  
“More than anything, I do.”

They bowed their head. “Then with everything you have, you fight for her. You prove yourself worthy outside of a knight’s laws and above them. And then as her man, as her knight, you defend her with your life, do you understand?”

Ivypool had to turn away, her eyes feeling sore with the sting of tears at their corners. “...But I am no man, traveller. I’m no knight, and I’m no man. I’m an archer, and I’m a woman.”

“You aren’t.” The traveller responded simply with a nod. “But the laws of our realm do so often restrict us. A woman may take a wife, I say, and an archer might be a knight in her own way. These laws, those codes of chivalry, they force us into boxes, Ivypool, and force us to make our own homes outside them.”

Ivypool wiped her eyes with the back of her wrist, leaving the pale fur there wet and warm. She nodded. “...I will try.”

And as she stood and turned back down the hill, her thoughts never once wandered to how the traveller had learned her name. She thought occasionally of dancing again with Blossomfall, of braiding flowers into her sweet-smelling fur, but she was thinking most of her dreams. There, beside the shadowed voice, she’d become her own kind of knight. That would be the home she created. For Blossomfall’s honor, and for her own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YEAH DUDE!!!!! hope u enjoyed,,,,,,,,
> 
> no art with this chapter yet and im soz for that,, but ill probably post some hollyleaf or ivypool refs with next update i pwomise

**Author's Note:**

> next chapter will focus on mothwing + leafpool
> 
> in the notes at the beginning of each chapter im gonna put a little summary of whats happened so far, so if you don't wanna read every chapter, you can just skip to whatever scenes are interesting to you, im not your dad do what you want


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